


Aftershocks

by Elisexyz



Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Illya Kuryakin, Injury, Napoleon is the one who needs a hug tho, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29360157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Listen, sometimes bursting into tears because your partner wished you a good morning is a perfectly appropriate reaction to have, alright?
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142537
Comments: 32
Kudos: 82
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Aftershocks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "recovery" prompt for day 26 of Febuwhump.  
>  Illya is half-dead here, again, _but_ tbh Napoleon is the true victim. He needs a vacation. And a nap. A few hugs too.  
>  Also, this is at least partially [Sunny's](https://little-spoon-napoleon.tumblr.com/) fault, because she talked a few times about Napoleon having a good cry and my brain wouldn't shut up about it (love you <3).

He is woken up by a graceless shove, prompting him to snap his head up – which, _ow_ , his neck hurts – and let out an incoherent sound of confusion.

He’s hunched forward, with both of his forearms on the mattress supporting him as he sits at the edge of his chair, and the first thing he sees is Illya frowning at him.

“You were distressed,” he explains, answering his silent but really heartfelt _what the hell_.

“Right,” Napoleon says, slowly, because that’s—true. His heart is still hammering, a little bit from the startle and a lot from the nightmare that he just woke up from, and he can’t really shake the uneasiness under his skin. His head pounds and everything _weights_ too much: he really could have used some decent sleep. “Thanks.”

Then, he feels everything coming to a halt, the world kindly slowing down for him, so that he can have time to remember that they are in a _hospital_ and, most importantly, _why_. He was asleep at Illya’s bedside because you can only run on caffeine and self-loathing for so long, so he collapsed. It’s been ten days and Illya is finally _speaking_ to him.

The realization sets too many things in motion, relief, joy, worry, _I need to get a doctor_ and a whole lot of questions rattling in his brain, but eventually the only thing that comes out of his mouth is: “Peril!” It sounds ridiculously delighted and a little hysterical to his own hears, but, well, too late.

Illya gives him a bit of smile – a little concerning, maybe, but also _absolutely wonderful_ – and raises his hand in greeting, if only a few inches. “’Morning, Cowboy.”

Now, there are—a _lot_ of things that Napoleon could say to that. He could simply return the sentiment and go call a doctor, like the sensible person that they both know he isn’t, or he could make a comment about his terrible state, maybe something about how he looks like he went three rounds with a bear, or he could complain to him about how he took his sweet time coming back to the land of living, which was really inconvenient—really, the possibilities are endless.

Instead, he grows very still, _something_ quickly building up in his chest and crawling all the way up to his throat, he vaguely registers that he isn’t sure it’s even morning, because he has been surviving on catnaps and his world has been _very_ narrowed down lately, and next thing he knows he’s _crying his eyes out_ , sobbing and shaking like he just received earth-shattering news.

_This is undignified, please, stop_ , he thinks over and over and over again, but the tears keep coming and another sob gets out every time he attempts to take a breath and calm himself down. Wiping furiously at his eyes doesn’t help, hiding behind his palms makes him feel even more stupid, and when he finally manages to clear his vision long enough to dare glancing at Illya he finds that he’s staring at him with huge eyes, like he’s grown a second head.

“Oh, fuck you,” he mutters, or rather _wheezes_ , tiny and strangled between one sob and the other, because yes, he’s apparently succumbed to hysterics, fucking _sue_ him, it’s been an _eternity_ since he last heard a ‘Cowboy’, and he needs some sleep, and he’s just _so_ fucking relieved, alright?

He needs to stop thinking about it, he needs to take a step back, breathe, think of—of a really nice beach or something equally as innocent and enjoyable, not of how terrified he has been for the last—

Illya reaches out to him, his fingers locking around his arm, a little under his wrist, and Napoleon has the brilliant idea of looking at him, his eyes mostly cleared of tears for the time being. Illya still looks somehow tentative, like he isn’t sure about how to get his feet underneath him, but he fixates these big, earnestly concerned eyes on him and he just says: “It’s okay.”

And there he is, gone in a fucking blur again, and though Napoleon manages to refrain from blinking for a few moments, because _no_ , he is _not_ doing this again, he doesn’t have much of a choice eventually, and as soon as he can feel the tears rolling down his cheeks he's back to sobbing and he can’t _stop_.

“Shit—sorry—” he strangles out, somewhere in the middle of the mess of sounds coming out of him. He can’t seem to be able to wipe his tears fast enough, there are always more and more and more— _a_ _nice beach, just a really, really nice beach, with the sun and an ocean of fucking_ tears—

“Cowboy?”

Illya still looks very worried and very alive and Napoleon just can’t help thinking— _who_ would have ever looked at him like that again if Illya had died? He has Gaby, thank god, because he isn’t sure he would have survived this stay at the hospital without her, but she doesn’t look at him like _that_ , if she’s worrying she _scowls_ at him, and—and he really would have missed the giant eyes of concern, and the little tentative ‘Cowboy?’ that comes with them, it was _so_ close—

He makes a distressed and entirely undignified noise, deciding that at this point he can’t really make the situation much worse, so it might be worth it to just—hide. He crosses his arms in front of him and just goes face down towards the bed, closing his eyes and trying desperately to breathe the crying fit away, because this is insane.

It only takes a few moments for Illya’s fingers to move to his hair, trying to soothe him as best as he can, and if it makes his chest ache even _more_ , it’s also somehow reassuring.

He doesn’t really manage to calm down: he can still feel tears pushing behind his eyes, his throat clogged by whatever that shit that he’s feeling is, but it’s fine: so long as he can push back and it all stays inside his head it’s only his own problem.

He pushes himself back up as soon as he thinks he can hold out a conversation without his voice breaking, and Illya’s hand trials down his shoulder and arm, eventually taking a hold of his wrist. Napoleon doesn’t dare moving away.

“I just really need to sleep,” is the first thing that he says, and it’s a terrible excuse said in the most unconvincing tone, but Illya’s nod is very solemn and understanding.

“Sleep is important,” he says, the absolute dork, and Napoleon’s stomach churns, a fresh wave of grief going through him because he almost—no, nope, no more crying, he’s done.

“You might have scared me a bit, for a minute,” Napoleon amends his terrible lie – or half-truth at most –, in a moment of honesty that he’s probably going to regret.

Just to prove his point, Illya decides to drop the understanding act, the corner of his mouth curling up. “Have I?” he teases. “I couldn’t tell.”

He isn’t sure if he’s more annoyed at Illya or at the fact that being annoyed at Illya is the _best_ feeling that he’s ever experienced.

His partner is alive and awake to be an asshole. Thank god.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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